Sunday, January 10, 2016

FRIENDSHIP

The day I flew back to
Troy Roscoe the nice wolf bit Luke’s hand while I was in the sky. Last
night I wrapped the gauze between Luke’s fingers in the ugly light of a brand
new bathroom, timid but tight, tied it off with book binding twine. The good
people want to talk. You aren’t a family but
be loyal and insane anyhowbecause, why not - why not be an ecosystem built
on love and pain instead of contracts. Friendship. Elise finds me in the
conservatory between the wet plants and the white plants. We are tired and walk
around. Years of walking around, years of plush chairs, sweet drinks,
comparisons, contrasts. Mack’s eyes never open all the way. Lowell rides the
exercise bike in a Betty Boop shirt. And my parents, they’re my friends. We fight and
we fight. We wish we knew each other perfectly, without having to try, without having to try to try. I wrap
the gauze with disconnect so the open flesh doesn’t make me faint. Somewhere in
Albany Roscoe is sulking around, tired and ashamed. But he’ll be back. He’ll
find the bloody gauze in the trash and bring it out to show us, hoping we will
play.